


A Shadow of the Past

by nostalgic_breton_girl



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl
Summary: In which Legate Talvynea Morven summons an ancestor guardian, unaware of the sheer significance of a certain one of her ancestors.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	A Shadow of the Past

If there is one thing I have never quite understood, it is the reverence of ancestors on principle. It is good to look to the past – the wisdom of ages is often lost to the present, or absent from it – but there are many who will blindly vaunt such people as they know nothing about, because they are older – because they are dead, and so sacred – because they lived in something that is called a Golden Age, or similar, because that is all that remains of the memory of that time, history written by the victors.

And it is a fine thing, too, to think that one is of good stock. To refuse the admiration of one’s ancestors is to admit their faults, and, by it, admit one’s own faults, if such things are inherited. No! it is a fool’s errand, to desecrate one’s own name like that... or so many of my kinspeople would have you believe.

They revere their ancestors, because they did not know them; but they know their names, at least, and can put a fragment of a story to them, and from there invent a legend. That, in my family, is difficult, if not impossible. Before a certain point in time, our history is entirely obscure, obscure in a thread of illegitimacy and shames and secrets, such things as do not, apparently, befit a clan to know.

There is but one way of knowing the ancestors in their corporeal (if that is the word) form. In times of need, or danger, or simply at a pressing crossroads, our race may summon a guardian spirit, supposedly taken from among one’s ancestors. Some of these are little more than a wraith, and one is hard-pressed to put a name to the faded visage and shapeless body. Others claim they have spoken with their guardians, with their ancestors, that such spirits may manifest as a true reproduction of the person...

If I am inclined to believe the latter, it is because I believe I have spoken with such a spirit.

I had been caught off-guard, on a patrol alone, by a small party of bandits; I could not hold them off with merely my sword, and so summoned an ancestor for myself, to defend me. This the spirit did admirably; and when it was over, I looked upon the thing, and saw that it was far more defined than any I remembered – that it had form, and a face, and that it, or rather she, was equally studying me.

‘You...’ I stammered: ‘you are... not a Dunmer.’

It was not the most important question, perhaps, in the circumstances, but I was not wrong. Though her coloration was entirely unclear, she did not have the ears for it, and her cheeks were rather plumper than any Dunmer’s I had seen.

‘No,’ she replied: ‘were you expecting one?’

‘I... that is what one expects, when one summons an ancestor-guardian.’

‘Is that what I am?’ she said, and looked down at her ethereal hands. ‘Surely that should not be possible?’

‘I did not think so either. You are my ancestor, then?’

‘I suppose I must be.’

‘Thank you for dispatching those bandits,’ I said after a moment. Is it the etiquette, to thank one’s guardian? – I do not believe the gesture is frequent. ‘Yours is a fine sword-arm.’

She had sheathed her semblance of a shortsword, which had imparted not physical wounds, but some kind of enchantment bequeathed only upon supernatural beings. ‘I have had the practice.’

‘You’re a soldier, then?’ I persisted, for I was excessively curious to know from whom I was descended.

‘An irregular, if you like. – _You_ must be one, in that uniform.’

‘A Legate of the Imperial Legion,’ I replied, and allowed myself a touch of pride. ‘At your service.’

‘The Imperial Legion!...’

She glared at me, and with that glare seemed more present than ever.

‘This is not Morrowind, I take it.’

‘Skyrim,’ said I.

‘Little better,’ she murmured: ‘the Empire is the scourge of the provinces; I should be ashamed, to have a descendent who serves an oppressor so flagrantly.’

‘I’m not –’ I protested, and faltered, for I did not know quite what excuse to use.

‘The Empire do not care for anyone, and your people of all of them should know that. In Morrowind... What year is it, pray?’

I told her, and she whistled.

‘Two hundred years!... But the Empire likely hasn’t changed, if they are yet calling themselves an Empire, and patrolling the provinces in such an obnoxious uniform.’ I made to protest, but once again did not find the words. ‘In my time, they –’

‘I did not speak to an ancestor,’ said I at last, ‘in search of argument: I merely wanted to know who you were, who my family were, for I do not know.’

‘Do not know _me_?’ she asked.

‘Should I?’

‘Perhaps it is not unexpected that you do not... no...’

She had stopped, abruptly, at my side, and now looked at me quite differently, such that I scarcely recognised her. She took in a breath; then she said:

‘I have perhaps been overly harsh already, not knowing your circumstances... That is always my mistake, and I should perhaps... apologise. – If there should be debate, then let it at least be civil. Let us start simply, with introductions.’

‘Talvynea Morven,’ said I: ‘the name means little to those of this time, and likely much less to you. – I have already given you my rank.’

Her lip curled a little, but her eyes were almost amused.

‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘And my name is Lunette; it is possible that you know me as –’

The words tumbled from my lips before they could even reach hers: ‘– the Nerevarine? Surely not!’

‘My name _is_ remembered, then?’ She whistled. ‘I suppose I am infamous.’

I contented myself with saying only that she was controversial – indeed, that in many ways she was revered, as the saviour who had cleared Morrowind of the Blight. – Such an act of heroism, destroying an indisputable threat to the land, seems frequently to overwhelm all other dealings.

‘It _does_ seem,’ said Lunette, falling into reminiscence.

Did she seem more overbearing, now I knew what a grand figure she was? did she walk with stronger step? Certainly I could see in her that great character of our history, certainly she had the flaming eyes and the domineering confidence for it –

But there was something quieter, too, more personal: the woman behind the legend, which softened her. I was grateful for it, eventually: I should not look upon her as something beyond the plausible, beyond the mortal, the Nerevarine had been a person as much as anyone else.

We had walked a good way before either of us spoke again: she reluctant, I quite star-struck. At last I ventured:

‘I do not believe it possible that I am related to the Nerevarine. I should surely know.’

‘What remained unknown about me would fill volumes. – It should not surprise me, if my descendents have become people I should despise: they did not know who I was, or what I despised.’

‘What did you despise?’

Her composure broke a little. ‘Did you not listen? – the Empire.’

‘Did you... not work with the Empire?’

‘Likely they claim that, yes.’

I had touched a nerve, and, with it, played at the edges of some dark web of history. So many questions! – and I did not know if I wanted to ask any of them... – But Lunette’s form was fading, no doubt her time as guardian was running short. I was going to content myself with some generic question, about being the Nerevarine, about living in such an extraordinary time, and fulfilling the most remarkable prophecy of the age; but before I could but speak, she said:

‘What has the Empire become, that you should feel any wish to serve it?’

‘Oh!’ said I, startled: ‘really I am not serving the Empire, so much as uniting against a common enemy.’

‘How very defensive of you.’

‘There is a man...’ I could not voice his name; it would mean nothing to her anyway. ‘He is persecuting my fellows in Windhelm, and aiming for tyranny in Skyrim, and that is what swayed me. There is very little to it.’

A long moment...

‘But,’ said I: ‘I cannot help but feel guilty at your reaction; you are my ancestor, after all, and you were the saviour of Morrowind –’

‘Or the terror, depending on whom you ask.’

‘I suppose it is in my Dunmer blood; I do not know if you would understand it, as, as –’

‘– a Cyrodiilic Breton.’

‘As a Breton, then. – I don’t know if you’d understand how much our society is built on past shadows, on the reverence of ancestors and names, the significance both of history and of family.’

‘I did rather get that impression, when I was in Morrowind...’ she murmured: ‘and I was an orphan, I didn't know my parents, and that only added to my otherness. – Certainly I know about it; I do not know if I shall ever understand it.’

Then, when I did not reply, finding not the words:

‘I suppose you are looking for guidance,’ she said: ‘and I do not believe I should be the best person to give it to you. I’m not even sure I have the time for it.’

Certainly she was pale now, more ghost-like than ever, and I was reminded of her temporary presence. I had not summoned an ancestor looking for guidance, and the spell was not designed to allow such extended conversation; but I had before me the Nerevarine! there must be something I could ask, before it was too late!

‘Sometimes,’ she said at last, ‘sometimes you have to make difficult choices, when it comes to picking sides...’

She broke away from the path, meandered, settled upon the remains of a fallen tree. After a moment I joined her, and she looked over at me, more maternally than I might have expected from her.

‘If you are fighting for a persecuted people, and against an authoritarian... then I forgive you, if your means are far from my ideal. Talvynea, I... I _did_ work for the Empire, in a sideways sort of fashion: they chose me as Nerevarine, and ensured that I fulfilled the prophecy. I worked for House Hlaalu; it was the only way I could ensure the abolition of slavery. The Empire... the Empire ensured that I might do what I was right, even as they did so many things which were wrong...’

Silence, save the breath of the wind in the trees, and my own; Lunette smiled wryly, looked down once more at her hands, saw that she was almost gone.

‘I’m not going to say I'm proud of you. I don’t know this time; I don’t know you; I don’t know... if I'm proud of myself...’

‘You did what you believed to be right...’ I said: ‘what _was_ right.’

‘Do you think so?...’

Another smile, more bittersweet...

‘Well, then, Talvynea,’ she said: ‘do what you think is right. Damn the methods, if the consequences are right. That is what I did: that is all I can offer you. – And if I may ask one thing, it’s that you do not revere me... What’s done is done, the future is what matters. – I am not a god...’

‘I don’t think I shall easily forget that my ancestor is the Nerevarine.’

‘That can be our secret.’

‘Thank you, Lunette...’

She scarcely acknowledged the thanks, but her eyes were bright despite her rapid disappearance. She stood, at length, and looked over me once more: over the Imperial uniform that had sat so comfortably on me before, and which now perplexed me. Still I saw her as grand, as the Nerevarine; but I saw her as more human than ever, and I think she recognised that in me, and was flattered by it.

‘Thank you, Talvynea,’ she replied: and then she was gone.

I sat a long while in contemplation of the circumstance; it should also be said that I was not entirely convinced I was not dreaming. I had not only spoken with an ancestor – that great and rare thing – but I had spoken with my compatriot’s saviour – or terror – that woman who would ever be remembered, whatever should be the reason. And I could not tell anyone!...

I do not revere her, though: I kept that promise at least. – The event was extraordinary; and I was comforted by her advice, though she might not have believed me, had I told her – though I did not quite believe myself; but she had persuaded me to see her as human, as the simple Breton behind the web of names and history. If I dwelt upon reverence of past figures, if I held them above and out of reach, then I should not see the full potential in the present, or the future, or indeed in myself...


End file.
